


Oyster

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Created for Bethany Fan Week.  Bethany gives Isabela a gift . . . and a carefully-thought-out explanation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oyster

“Oh, poppet, it’s gorgeous.”  Isabela breathes, reaching for the lustrous bit of treasure.  “Where did you find it?”

Bethany keeps it just out of her grasp.  Not an easy task with the pirate’s back pressed to her chest, and the swirl of bathwater knocking them about like boats at dock.

“Fenris.  I was poking around in his library and found it in a box.”  She unclasps the impossibly long pearl necklace and lets one end dip below the surface of the water.  One glowing orb after another marches inexorably between the damp valley of Isabela’s breasts.  “He said I could keep it.  It reminded us both of you.”

“Of course it did.”  The voice is mild, but the head on her shoulder drifts, gazing at the prize with unabashed hunger.  Bethany twines her legs over the longer ones and hooks them, pulling them apart with a brief splash.

“It reminded me of something you said once.”

The younger woman stares at the strand, barely keeping its shape beneath the ripples, as it slithers lower across Isabela’s stomach.

“Mhm?”

“That the world is your oyster.  You don’t realize how true that is.”

Swallowing, she kisses the wet, black hair pressed against her cheek. Bethany wants to laugh at how mundane she has always felt standing next to this woman.  How perfectly drab.  She runs her free hand across Isabela’s ribs, cupping a breast as it crests the water, and the mage lets herself feel like an instrument of rapture.  Something that will never be mistaken for mundane.  The Rivaini makes an appreciative sound as Bethany feeds the necklace further into the water.  It pools at the dark thatch of hair, the juncture of her spread thighs, before dropping over to gather at the bottom of the tub at last.

They stare at it, this rope of perfect, white beads drifting slightly in the churn of bathwater.  Bethany has a point to make, though, and the pearls bring her back to it.

“It’s mostly hard and rough.  The world. . .the oyster.  And it will cut your hands rather than give over.”

Her legs relax and Isabela pushes back against her.  She can’t _not_ rub.  Sometimes they are quick together, like men.  But mostly Isabela is slow motion and perseverance in the face of Bethany’s sheer ambition.  Slick, weapon-worn hands grip the tub, rubbing shoulder to chest, ass to belly.  And Bethany tries not to press forward.  Tries not to be eager.

“ _Close them_ ,” she whispers, her breath teasing the back of one heavy, gold earring.  And the other woman complies.  Graceful legs come together around the pearls.  Bethany doesn’t have to see her face, the warm honey of her eyes, to know she’s smiling.  _Good girl_ , she’ll be thinking, openly proud of someone who’s not exactly used to it.

And, this new practice has earned her one avid tryst after another.




After a moment, the young mage remembers her analogy and continues. 

“But it’s more than that.  Inside, when you’ve finally managed to find a seam and crack it open, there are _more_ secrets and mysteries.”

Everything is where she wants it, exactly how she pictured it while skipping down from Hightown nearly in a fever.  Isabela sits still and waits, watching with thighs tensed around the strand.  The pearls rise up, nestled like the chains of an anchor against the swell of her mound.

Bethany draws the pearls, one exquisite sphere at a time, over the real treasure.  Her voice is light, edged with a rasp.

“Parts of it are velvet soft, vulnerable.  It smells like the sea, and it tastes of sex.”

Isabela squirms, and uses her hands to press her thighs tighter.  The pearls catch and Bethany tugs hard.  One more, then another.  The cleft parts roughly, ruby folds dragging over the beads.  Between ripples, when the water settles for just a moment, Bethany sees Isabela’s clit slipping along each pearl, and receding in the spaces between.

Though every part of her wants to drop the necklace and turn them both out onto the floor in a wet, writhing heap, the young woman goes on.  And the pirate’s heels bump softly in the tub as she whines.

“Deep within lies something precious.  It’s not the prettiest treasure, and it’s not even the most rare.”  She kisses a trickle of sweat from the coppery cheek.  Isabela bucks, and the pearls pull faster.  “But it is something forged by the miracle of pure will.”

“Don’t stop, kitten.” It’s a request, given between gasps.

“Maybe you don’t know why you desire it.  Why you don’t mind cutting your palms open, and running yourself to the brink of death over it.”  Soon enough the necklace will be spent.  Bethany makes each remaining pearl count.  They glide sideways.  They rub themselves like worshipful creatures beside the aching nub, lodged for a tremulous second and then whisked away.  

“B- Bethany.  Oh, you . . .oh, _balls_.”

Then, she does chuckle just a little bit.  Because this carefree creature between her legs is nothing short of a treasure in her own right.  And, Bethany has never had something like that all to herself.  Whatever this is, it’s _hers._   She lets herself think of how Isabela will repay her creativity, and blushes hard . . .everywhere.  Below the water, Bethany’s legs press and hold.  Above the water, her voice is a feather. 

“But the chase means more than anything to you.  You might never possess it . . .” She pulls and stops.  Isabela grips the back of her head, fingernails an urgent storm in her damp hair.  “You’ll spend a lifetime in pursuit of it . . .”

Bethany rotates the strand and yanks.  A mellifluous recitation of profanity pours from the pirate. 

“And you will love every second.”  The last of the pearls slides away and Bethany replaces them, deftly and without pause, with her fingers.  “Because you suspect the pearl itself is . . . simply another reason to keep going.  To live free.”

As her fingertips work, Bethany falls silent.  Isabela turns in her arms, lips torquing into place over hers, and she doesn’t realize she’s keeping this part dark and heavy behind closed eyes.  Concentration takes her, takes the form of fire she can command into her fingers.  What she needs to say is done with.  Her mouth is full of heat, a tongue and a voice not her own, and the tiny muscles of her hand blur in their effort.  All else is sunlight wrapped in water as Isabela’s hoarse cry undulates past her lips, and crashes against her teeth

When it’s over, when she opens her eyes to find a sated goddess pulling her close, Bethany can finally see how the bathwater skitters away from her fingers.  And they burn.

“Maker’s crooked cock, Beth.”  The pirate moves against her, straddling, and more water slaps onto the floor.

“I- I’m sorry, I don’t know . . .”

“You beautiful, _magical_ thing, you.”  Isabela lifts her fingers from the water and kisses each one, draws them into her mouth, and licks away Bethany’s sudden solemnity.  “You ignited the water, pet.  And me.”

She looks away from the woman’s lips, and gazes down at her own, pale digits as if they belong to another mage, another lover.  With Isabela’s urging, she smoothes them over the other woman’s breasts, across her shoulders and down her arms.  Bethany drops her hands into the tub, pulls the swell of hips tighter over her lap, and nods to herself.  It’s gesture that also denies the prickle of tears behind her eyes.  There is no reason to feel like this.  Like something died because she let go.  Before she can stop herself she’s nodding again, succumbing to a small, yet giddy, portion of pride.

“You like my present then?”  She purrs, and thinks that kittens definitely don’t smile this way.  As she’s fishing the necklace out of the water with her toes, Isabela bends back and snatches it.  The pearls flash and sing like careful little teeth against her skin.  Bethany loves the way the necklace teases across her shadowy nipples.  And since she’s been caught admiring, Isabela graces her with a brief shimmy. 

“Darling, it’s perfect.”  Her voice drips like flaming lamp oil over the young woman’s flushed face, golden eyes promising . . .making her shiver almost as much as the cooling water, or pearls against gooseflesh. 

When they stretch each other out in the remains of their bath, Bethany boils it again and again, until everything evaporates but their shrieks of delight.


End file.
